breathless eagerness. What were they about to hear? But some instinct
kept them all silent. Time enough for thanks, thought Hodge and Giles,
when they knew what there was to thank for. And as for Michael, his
curiosity was kept back by the real sorrow he felt at the idea of the
old man's approaching death.
Peter went on again:
"As children," he said, "I daresay you heard many of the old fairy tales
handed down for generations--tales to be found in one shape or another
all the world over, it seems to me. So it often struck me that for some
of them, at least, there must be a foundation of truth at bottom, and I
set myself to use my little knowledge of these matters to discover it. I
failed in several cases--I was wanting in certain qualifications. But as
to one so-called legend I succeeded. Do you remember the old tale of the
grateful gnome who taught his human benefactor how to make sure of a
good dinner, by using a certain spell?"
Hodge pricked up his ears at the word "dinner." So did Giles, but though
they had some vague memory of the well-known story, they were half
afraid to say so, for fear of Peter's cross-questioning them. But
Michael answered at once, for he had always loved fairy stories, that
he remembered the one of the magic table quite distinctly.
"Well, then," said the old man, "I am going to show you that it was
true, for the spell by which the feast was made to appear still exists.
Now, all of you, listen carefully to my words. I may repeat them thrice,
which will enable you to learn them perfectly, but after the third time
you must trust to your memory."
Then sitting up erect on his chair, he recited, slowly and distinctly
thrice, as he had said, these words:
"Little table, fair to see,
Magic bell now summons thee.
Spread with viands good to taste,
Fairy table, prithee haste!"
and after a moment's silence, when he had ended the incantation, he drew
out a tiny silver bell--a mere toy of a thing--and rang it sharply.
Then there reached the ears of the astonished guests a whirring sound as
if of invisible wheels revolving quickly. It was faint at first, but
gradually seemed to come nearer, or rather, I should say, to rise
upwards. It was of course the same sound which Michael had heard that
Sunday, when he had unwittingly approached too near the cottage before
the appointed time. And suddenly, with a sort of swing as of well-oiled
doors opening swiftly, the flooring drew apart, and before the watchers
could see how or whence it came, there stood in its accustomed place, in
the centre of the kitchen, the table they all knew so well, bearing on
its snow-white cover the tempting savoury dishes, neatly arranged and
steaming hot. Enough truly, so tempting did they look, so excellently
did they smell, to make even the least greedily disposed person's mouth
water.
For a minute or two the young men were too astounded to speak. Then
Peter smiled.
"Do not look so startled," he said reassuringly. "The dinner is what you
have enjoyed many and many a time, and it has been sent in the same way.
Have no misgivings. Draw round it, and make a hearty meal."
They did so with many murmurs of surprise and admiration; and for once,
perhaps, it may be of interest to know of what the dinner consisted. At
one end was a roast capon, cooked to perfection, at the other a ham, of
so delicate a colour and flavour that it must surely have belonged to a
fairy pig! Then there were potatoes, so white and floury that I feel
convinced they must have been whisked over from Ireland, and delicious
green sprouts of the kind that I, as a child, and I daresay many other
children with me, used always to call "fairy cabbages," so exactly like
miniatures of the large ordinary kind are they. And as side dishes,
which apparently were still in fashion in the land of the gnomes or
brownies, stood fruit pies whose pastry melted in your mouth, so light
and flaky was it. And last, not least, a crystal bowl filled with cream,
which surely must have come from Devon or Cornwall, or the places which
match those in fairyland!
And in spite of their wonder and astonishment the three guests did
justice to the feast, I assure you, for they were all very hungry.
Their host watched them with satisfaction, though eating but little
himself. And when they had finished and turned to him, as was their
custom, to thank him for their excellent repast, he smiled kindly.
"Now," he said, "you shall see the end of the matter."
He rang the bell, and in a moment or two the whirring noise was heard,
the floor gently opened and the table descended, then the aperture
closed and all was as it had been when the three entered the cottage.
And again they gazed in amazement, for on former occasions they had
bidden Peter good-bye and taken leave, with the table and the remains of
the meal still standing in the kitchen.
"Yes," said the old man. "I do not wonder at your surprise. And now I
must explain further. It is in my power to bequeath my secret to one of
you. In fact I have told a part of the spell to you all. But a part
only. There is a condition attached to its acting successfully which I
cannot and must not tell you. The very fact of my doing so would destroy
the whole. You shall each have a fair chance. You, Hodge, as the eldest
must have the first. Here is the magic bell," and he handed him the
pretty toy as he spoke. "Keep it safely, and use it as you have seen me
do, after repeating the verse I have taught you. Next Sunday at the same
hour; that is the appointed time. But--remember there is a condition
which you must fulfil; consider the matter well in your own mind; ponder
it during the next few days. If you succeed, well and good; if not, you
must pass on the bell to Giles, that he may have his chance. And if he
fails, it will be for Michael. There must be no disputes about it--to do
you justice I do not fear that there will be, for I have watched you
all, and have been pleased to see that you lived in amity, without
jealousy or ill-will. And I have treated you all with perfect fairness."
"You have indeed," said all the three together, adding, "and we shall
not forget it. Fair play's a jewel."
"But," said Michael anxiously, "you speak of next Sunday, dear uncle.
May we not meet here again as usual while you are still with us?"
The old man laid his withered hand kindly on the young fellow's
shoulder.
"I shall not be here next Sunday, my boy," he said, "and for this you
must not grieve. Now farewell to you all."
And realising that he wished to be alone, they wrung his hand and went
quietly away.
And before the sun sank on the following evening the old man had gone,
as he had predicted.
The three young men all felt saddened by their loss--Michael especially,
the more so when he saw Ysenda dissolved in tears, at the simple little
funeral. How he longed to have a right to comfort her!
Hodge and Giles, though not without good feeling and gratitude to their
old uncle, were too excited at the prospect of trying to benefit by his
strange legacy, to give very much thought to mourning him.
"It's my turn first," said Hodge, "and I mean to succeed. But I'm not
going to talk about it. Just you, Giles, and you, Mike, leave me alone.
I have my own ideas."
"All right," said Giles, "I'm not going to meddle."
"And as for me," said Michael, "I've really scarce given the matter a
thought."
Both noticed, however, that Hodge said nothing about their joining him
on Sunday at the usual hour, as they had naturally expected. The loss of
the one really good meal they had till now been sure of, was of
consequence to them, though they were not greedy. To Mike, just at
present, it mattered the most, for the poor fellow was denying himself
in every way he could, so as to help Dame Martha with her grandchildren.
Ysenda was doing her utmost, but just now her father was in a far from
amiable humour, as she had again refused to accept a wealthy suitor, and
to punish her the farmer was doling out even less money than his wont.
So several people whom this little story concerns were in rather low
spirits--Paul and Mattie less so than their elders, for though it was
all their grandmother could do to give them the plainest of food and by
no means very much of that, her love made up for her poverty, and they
were at an age when hopefulness is easy.
Well--the days passed till came the Sunday on which Hodge was to try the
working of the spell. He was up with the dawn, and instead of going to
church as usual, spent the morning in scrubbing and scouring, till his
kitchen shone like a new pin. For this was the idea that had come to him
as the condition of success. Perfect cleanness! Peter's cottage had
always been a marvel of this; it was whispered that the brownies or some
mysterious beings of the kind acted as his housemaids, and perhaps it
was so, for feeble and stiff as he was, it seemed impossible that he
himself could have kept the boards so spotless, the stove so polished,
the few pots and pans, which were of antique copper, so shining. And for
all we know, the saying was a true one.
Now Hodge was naturally a bit lazy, and his house by no means as well
cared for as it might have been, and knowing this, it is scarcely to be
wondered at that he hit upon this solution of the riddle. But he was not
of course absolutely certain that it was correct, and for this reason,
regardless of the probable disappointment to his companions, he let them
understand that he did not expect them to be his guests.
"Another time I may invite them," he said to himself, "but best not
begin by making a rule of it. Besides, if I fail I don't want them to
sit here laughing at me. Not that there's much fear. The good people
can't but be pleased with the way I've scrubbed and tidied. And I don't
object to dining alone. I feel as if I could eat a whole capon to
myself, not to speak of the other toothsome things! And after dinner
I'll be glad of a rest, for working as hard as I've been doing, makes
one ache."
He tidied up himself as well as his room, and then sat down to wait, the
little bell in his hand. Twelve o'clock, a quarter past, then the
half-hour, and at the moment, Hodge, having locked the door and closed
the shutters for fear of intrusion or interruption, began solemnly to
recite the incantation, which he had got well by heart, and as he
uttered the last words "prithee haste" he lifted the silver toy and rang
it vigorously, then sat listening with intensity.
For a moment or two he fancied he heard the whirring sound drawing
near, but no--it was the buzzing in his head from his nervousness, for,
stolid as he was, he was strung up with mingled hopes and fears. He rang
again--no result; again he repeated the lines, half hoping he had not
been quite accurate. No--they were as he had written them down and as he
had compared them with the copies taken by his cousins. All was correct.
But--nothing happened! And Hodge, slow and unemotional though he was,
felt ready to shed tears!
Then he remembered that he was very hungry, and there was nothing but a
crust of dry bread and a scrap of cheese in the house, and on Sundays
there was no means of getting anything else. He had to be content,
therefore, and to make the best of his scanty fare, and then he lay down
on his bed and went to sleep and slept till it was dark, consoling
himself with the thought that as he had failed there was not much chance
of either of the others succeeding, and when he awoke, being on the
whole a good-natured sort of fellow, he put his pride in his pocket and
set off for Giles's, inspired partly, I dare say, by the hope of getting
something to eat!
He found his two cousins supping together. Their fare was not luxurious
nor abundant, but as he handed the bell to Giles and they saw his
downcast face they at once understood the state of things and invited
him to join them. He was glad enough to do so, and told them his story.
"And now, Giles," he ended, "it's your turn. Though what you can do to
please the good people more than I did, I can't think."
"I'll tell you where you went wrong," said Giles. "You should have
invited us too! There's something in numbers, you know--especially in
the number three. And we've always been together at the dinner. Anyway,
I now ask you two to be here next Sunday at the usual time to see me try
my luck."
"Thank you," said Hodge rather sheepishly.
"Thank you," repeated Michael half absently, for his thoughts were
running on other things. Ysenda's face had looked very sad in church
that morning, and he fancied that Dame Martha and her charges were
growing thinner and paler steadily.
"I'm certain they haven't enough to eat," he thought. "Maybe Giles will
help a bit, if he succeeds," but in his heart he doubted if either Giles
or he himself would fare better than Hodge had done.
"Yet," he said to himself, "Uncle Peter wasn't the sort to play a trick
on us. And we saw the magic with our own eyes! But I scarce dare hope
that we'll find the secret."
Sunday--the second Sunday--arrived in due time, and the three cousins
met as arranged at Giles's cottage. Hodge was feeling of two minds. In
one way he did not want Giles to succeed when he had failed; on the
other hand, he greatly missed the excellent weekly dinner, and said to
himself that after all it would be better to enjoy it at his cousin's
than not to get it at all.
Giles was awaiting them at his door, the little bell in his hand.
"Come along in," he said. "Uncle Peter used to keep his guests waiting
outside till it was all ready, but as we all saw the whole of it that
last day, I don't see that I need start it all alone. It makes one a bit
shaky and nervous, you see."
So Hodge and Mike, by no means unwillingly, followed him into the
kitchen. Hodge was as usual very hungry, and again rather excited in
hopes of a good dinner. Michael seemed depressed. He didn't care whether
he was hungry or not; he was far from sanguine as to success for either
Giles or himself; he missed his old uncle, and was rather in low
spirits all round. Still of course he had no thought of refusing to take
part in Giles's effort.
The three seated themselves, leaving the space for the table's hoped-for
appearance. Giles held the bell in his hand, every now and then glancing
at the old clock in the corner, of which he was the happy possessor.
"It doesn't keep such very good time," he said in a low voice, "but I
set it right this morning, so it can't be more than a moment or two
slow."
And then they waited till the long hand approached and slightly passed
the twenty-nine minutes to the fateful half-hour.
Giles began to recite the charm, the two others listening. He said it
quite correctly, then slowly raising the bell he rang it clearly. Utter
silence. Then--yes--the first whirring was heard, gradually growing
louder as it went on, till with the same sort of spring or swing the
floor opened and up came the table, the mysterious space closing again
at once.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Giles, starting up, and even Michael's heart beat
faster with excitement. But Hodge, whose one thought was his dinner,
Hodge's red face grew paler and his expression darkened.
"Not so fast," he said; "not much hurrahing about it." And then the
others saw what his greedy eyes had at once perceived. The table was, as
ever, covered with a spotless cloth--three places were laid for, as far
as plates and knives were concerned, but on each lay a small loaf of
black or brown bread and a wedge of cheese. That was all! No end dishes,
no side ones--no centre with fruit--nothing but the plain everyday
luncheon they were used to when at work in the fields, and none too much
of it either, and as Hodge added, muttering, "not even a glass of beer"!
The three looked at each other. Giles and Mike began to laugh, as much
at Hodge's angry disgust as at the thing itself.
"You've not hit it off, after all," said Michael to his host. "Still,
anything's better than nothing. I vote that we eat what there is," and
he cut a slice off his loaf. The others--Hodge very gloomily--did the
same and began to eat. The provisions were good of their kind.
"I wonder what I did wrong, or didn't do right," said Giles. "At worst,
Hodge, I've got on better than you, and next Sunday maybe Michael will
manage best of all. Surely you'll get some hot potatoes at least, Mike?"
"I don't think I'm going to try at all," said the youngest of the
cousins.
"It's been a mean sort of lega----" began Hodge.
But before he finished the word, Michael stopped him. "You mustn't speak
against Uncle Peter," he said. "He did his best for us, of that I'm
sure. The spell was not of his making. He had no power over it. He
taught us all he could. Strikes me we're not _good_ enough to succeed,
somehow. Think what he was! So contented and patient, and so unselfish!
Giving away of the little he had, keeping scarce anything for himself."
"He was always sure of a good Sunday dinner, anyway," grumbled Hodge.
"And did he keep even that to himself?" queried Michael.
By this time the table was cleared of the little it had offered. Giles
stood up and held out the bell.
"We may as well send it back again," he said, ringing, as he spoke, and
in a few moments the whole had disappeared as they had seen it do that
last Sunday at old Peter's.
Hodge walked off without speaking. Giles turned to Michael--he was still
holding the little bell.
"Are you in earnest, Mike," he asked, "about giving up your try? If so,
what's to be done with this?"
He waved the pretty thing in his hand as he spoke. Strange to say, it
gave out no sound. The cousins looked at it curiously. The queer
incident impressed them afresh, and Michael hesitated in his reply.
"There is no tricking of us in it," he murmured. Then he turned to
Giles.
"You may as well give it to me," he said. "I'll think it over and let
you know before next Sunday--and Hodge too, for that matter."
A new idea had struck him and his face brightened. He would consult
Ysenda and abide by her advice, and in the meantime he carefully hid
away the silver bell.
For two or three days to come he had no opportunity of meeting the
farmer's pretty daughter. But one evening when he had looked in at Dame
Martha's to see how she and the orphans were getting on, he met Ysenda,
on her way thither. She was carrying a basket with what provisions she
had got leave to bring them. For she was too honest to give away
anything belonging to her father without his permission. She stopped at
once, on seeing Mike, who doffed his hat.
"Good evening," she said, "I am----" but he interrupted her. "Let me
carry that for you. It is heavy," he began, taking hold of the handle.
"I could wish it were heavier," she said, with a rather pitiful smile.
"I do what I can for the good dame and those dear children, but it isn't
much."
"It's more than I do," said Michael regretfully.
"Don't say that," she replied eagerly. "You give all you have to give.
But what irks me is the knowing I _should_ be able to do all needed for
the poor things, if only--my father----" she stopped short. "How are
they?" she went on again. "You have been there, I make sure?"
Michael blushed.
"They're fairly well," he said. "It was only a bundle of fire-wood, and,
and--some windfall apples I found--nothing to speak of. The
boy--Paul--has had a bit of work this week. I spoke to our master for
him, but it's a slack time of year, you see."
Ysenda nodded. Michael had turned and was retracing his steps with her.
For a moment or two neither spoke. Then suddenly the young man looked
at her, with a grave face.
"Ysenda," he said, "I want your advice," and he went on hurriedly to
relate to her the experiences of the last two Sundays in his cousins'
cottages. She listened attentively, but somewhat to his perplexity she
seemed in no way surprised or discouraged by his story, for when he
ended by saying, "Don't you think I'd best give it up? It doesn't seem
meant for the like of us. Uncle Peter didn't understand maybe that we're
not the same as him--we're too thick-skulled and dull, and not full of
benevolence and charity as he was. The good people don't care to bestow
their benefits on common rough fellows like us," she replied quietly:
"No, Michael, I don't agree with you. You've got wrong notions. There's
a condition attached to the spell, which must be discovered by yourself.
Uncle Peter told you this plainly. He said nothing about success
depending on your being very clever, or learned in the ways he was, and
he knew none of you were. He knew the condition was one quite possible
for you to fulfil, but it had to be your own doing. Well--Hodge and
Giles have failed--Giles less than Hodge----"
"Because he wasn't such a selfish pig as Hodge," Michael interrupted,
"still----"
Ysenda smiled.
"Still," she went on, "a meal of bread and cheese isn't worth the
trouble. I agree with you. But I don't see why _you_ should not succeed,
though the others have failed."
"I don't know why I _should_!" exclaimed he. "I can think of nothing new
to try, and it worries me. I keep dreaming about it night and day, till
I want to throw it over and have done with it. I had a plan----" but he
hesitated.
"Tell me your plan," she urged.
"It was this. I thought maybe Hodge and Giles would forget the right
words or miss the time or do something stupid that I could see and guard
against when my turn came, and if so I had planned how I'd invite the
poor dame and her children to the Sunday feast--I'd have just bid them
come a few minutes before the time, the way uncle did with us--and when
I'd got it all ready--steaming hot and all beautiful and tempting, I'd
throw open the door and show them in. My! just to think of it," and his
blue eyes danced with pleasure.
So did Ysenda's pretty grey ones, but she kept her self-control.
"Well," she said gently, "why shouldn't you carry out your plan?"
"Ysenda!" exclaimed Michael, "how could I risk it after the failure of
the others? Supposing I had as good luck as Giles--and how can I be sure
of even that?--a nice feast it would be to invite the poor things to--a
lump of bread and a wedge of cheese! I'd be ashamed past words."
"You'd have a nice, dainty table, and no doubt, if the good people knew
how many guests you'd asked, they'd lay places for them all, as has
always been the case so far as I understand," said Ysenda. "I'll tell
you what I'd do--I'll help you all I can--let's have some simple fare
ready to fall back upon if need be. I'm sure I can manage a joint of
cold meat and some potatoes, which you can roast in readiness. Then when
you invite Dame Martha and the children just say it's really to take
'pot-luck' with you, so they won't expect over much."
Michael's face brightened.
"Thank you, Ysenda," he said, "thank you a thousand times. You've
cheered me greatly, and made me think I'd be a coward not to take my
chance. So I'll do as you say. Maybe I can get some vegetables or fruit
to help out the dinner. And I'll just invite them in an off-hand sort of
way, as you advise. A case of 'pot-luck' it certainly will be, if there
never was one before!" and he laughed quite heartily.
That very evening he invited the dame and her grandchildren, and the
first time he met Hodge and Giles he told them of these expected guests.
Hodge was rather scornful about it, but Giles was more cheery.
"There's something in numbers," he maintained, "and three's a lucky one.
You're the third to try, and you've invited three, besides us three
ourselves. And--" he added, slapping his cousin on the shoulder as he
spoke--"why yes, Mike, old fellow, fate's smiling on you and no mistake!
Sunday's the third of the month, for sure!"
Michael's spirits rose still higher.
"Thank you, Giles," he said. "Well, we'll know before long. And you two
mustn't fail me. If we don't meet at church, I'll depend on you soon
after twelve o'clock on Sunday. Don't be late."
"No fear," said Giles, and Hodge, who was influenced by the others'
hopefulness, felt his mouth already watering in anticipation of the
excellent fare, echoed "no fear."
And some quarter of an hour or so before the usual time the three were
settled in their places, Mike, bell in hand, all three pair of eyes
glancing every minute or so at the clock. Now and then Michael's strayed
to the cupboard in the corner, with a comfortable expression, for there,
thanks to Ysenda and his own precautions, there was a good piece of meat
and a few other odds and ends, sufficient for a plain though not very
choice or ample meal.
At last--and how very slowly do the hands of a clock seem to move, if
one is watching them!--at last the long needle approached the figure
"six" at the bottom of the dial. Mike glanced at his companions.
"Now for it," he said, and for the life of him he could not prevent his
voice shaking a little. "Here goes," and then pulling himself together
he repeated the rhyme of incantation in a firm clear voice: